#harry is a dumpster fire | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

kenyummy · 3 months ago

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✰ 02. the ballad of a bygone blight.

✰ ꒰ ⍣'ˎ˗ platonic yandere batfam / spider! reader ꒱

✰ 02. a green fire—love is weird!

SYNOPSIS : being spidey isn't easy. being transported into an alternate universe where you're nothing but a shadow in your house, makes sneaking around a little easier... until you find yourself the apple of their eye... kind of.

note: spideytorch... parksborn... I miss u... this is more introducing the ones who already like spidey but guys kon soon prolly bc i alr wrote a hella romantic drabble.. heh..

prev. ✰ masterlist ✰ next.

At least life—as you knew it—hadn't changed entirely. Sure you aren't going to Midtown anymore, but this Gotham Public didn't seem too much different. Instead of New Yorkians, it was all Jersans... yay...

Your supposed brothers and sisters went to the more prestigious school on the other side of Gotham—but all you wondered is why, really. It must've been a pain to go all the way across town to pick up one singular child.

(You realised why you had a bus pass slipped in your wallet soon enough).

You just can't believe your "dad" decided to send you to school the day after your recovery. That was really crazy. Even Alfred seemed a bit iffy with his words—but regardless, didn't attempt to fight back.

You don't blame him. Bruce seemed pretty unreasonable. Anyways—your main theory is that he didn't want people asking invasive questions... if any at all. Or that he couldn't be bothered to just leave you at home. Or he had some top secret Batman stuff to do that couldn't involve the likes of you.

Regardless—you don't care. You're still just as annoyed about either way.

The necklace resting atop your collarbones feels tighter than ever. This was scary. Real scary. You hadn't a clue what this school was like—the people, your friends (if you had any at all), your teachers, the school system or anything.

Even your Friendly Neighbourhood Spidey had their anxiety-inducing moments.

But you were met with a pleasant—very pleasant, meaning it wasn't teenager B.O—surprise when you walk into the building

"[name]!" A comfortingly familiar voice rings out in your ears and you gasp in shock.

That voice felt like laying on a bed of clouds—stretching out and feeling fuzziness after all that dark leather and depression.

A red head of hair comes barreling at you and wraps around your torso, tight. You return it with just as much glee. "MJ! You're... here! You're actually here...!!"

Mary "MJ" Jane—your best friend—is right here with you, her fiery red hair and pretty blue eyes staring like nothing changed. The only thing different is the bat symbol on her graphic shirt—and the abundance of books pressed against her side.

You squish your cheek against hers'—you feel her smile against you. "Um—of course I'm here. We go to this school, you know."

"Yeah, but [name] skips so much she's probably forgotten."

You whip your head around, smile widening. "Harry...!"

Harry Osborn—your other best friend—gives you a bright grin and holds his hand up in a wave. You wonder if your unofficial arch-nemesis Green Goblin—also his father—exists in this world. Judging from the glamour of the watch on his wrist—you guess he's still at least partially filthy rich.

Your eyes brighten and you could almost cry after the dumpster fire that was your family dinner.

MJ pouts beside you, sending your friend a glare, "Harry, you thief."

"Not my fault I'm the better looking one," he raises his arms in mock-defense—giving MJ just as hard as a look. A second later—the "tension" evaporates and they're both giggling uncontrollably. Harry elbows your arm. "What's up with your outfit? Who's that?"

Gesturing to the very inconspicuous spidey symbol on your top. You blink. You'd almost forgotten Spidey didn't exist in this world. Not yet, at least.

"Haven't you heard? The newest—and coolest—hero." You nudge him back and smirk. "I forget you nepo babies are never caught up."

"Um, hello? You're like—the ultimate nepo baby, [name]." MJ sends you a knowing brow-raise. "Bruce Wayne is literally your dad. That's the most nepo baby thing I've ever heard."

You'd almost forgotten this Bruce Wayne guy was now your (though neglectful) father. MJ and Harry probably didn't know this, so you laugh awkwardly and smile.

"... Oh, yeah. Right. Silly me."

The bell chimes (you must be the luckiest spider ever with this timing), ringing loudly in every student's ear as the freshmen start rushing to class. You've just realised you don't know where your first period class is.

...Or any of your classes, for that matter. You'd have to bring your schedule tomorrow—but for today, you'd rely on your best friends.

Holding your arm out toward Harry, you give him a cheeky smile, "Walk me to class?"

He takes your arm in his without a moment's hesitation, giving you a smile just as sneaky, "Anytime."

MJ looks between the two of you as you both walk to first period, chatting and laughing—the equations practically going off over her head as she grins.

First period couldn't have been any worse. Your English teacher was rambling on about anything and everything concerning Shakespeare's final play—confusing even the rest of the class, who weren't transported from another dimension.

It wasn't helping that Flash couldn't seem to stop throwing scrunched up paper balls at the back of your head. Giving him dirty looks didn't seem to halt him—he would only laugh harder with his friends.

It seemed he truly did hate your guts in every universe. The consistency was almost comforting.

"That guy...!" Harry's jaw is clenched hard, and he sends him the nastiest glare you've ever seen. "He still won't get over himself, it pisses me off...! So salty over you rejecting him and he's still insisting it was a joke."

Ah. So that's why. In your original universe, he just hated you because you beat his ass in third grade for making fun of your handwriting.

"Who cares—" You try to be the bigger person—but you have to clench your fists and bite your tongue when another paper ball flies to the target of the back of your head. "... I'm better than this, so I don't."

Harry pauses—but smiles after a moment. "... What changed?"

Huh? Has he figured you out already?

You furrow your brows, but you smile when you tilt your head. "What do you mean? I'm... the same as always, you know."

"No, you're acting different. But not in a bad way. Before, you'd take any chance you get to talk badly about Thompson." He chuckles. "Have you matured overnight, or something?"

This is the second time somebody's pointed this out.

Was this universes' you really that spiteful? Your diary entries were anything but kind, sure—but you could never have imagined you to be so... different.

Then again, your dearest uncle was nowhere to be seen either—and without him, perhaps you would've ended up just like this you. You might've never become the Spidey you are today.

... Though, you weren't Spidey in this universe, were you?

"I guess so. Nothing... nothing good comes out of being bitter. Sometimes it's best to learn from it and move on." You smile. Harry gives you an indescribable—yet fond—look.

The bell chimes once more after that dreary period—and you're out that door faster than Harry can catch you.

Two periods later, you're finally able to eat.

Lunch, a little less fortunately, is the same as always. You'd like to think it's because all the rich people (and consequently, all the funding) go to the school on the other side of Gotham, but it probably is just because all school lunches are equally awful.

After taking your tray of mashed greens (you're unable to decipher exactly what greens they're made of) and a dry, veggieless burger—you sit down at a lunch table with MJ. Harry's still waiting in line for an extra carton of milk.

She smiles at you, friendly, "Hey, you. How was English?"

"Hey to you, too. It was terrible." You sigh, slumping down on the table with your head in your hands. "Flash wouldn't leave me alone. I'm so sick of his shit."

"Nothing new, then," She snorts, clearly amused by your stress. "He'll leave you alone, eventually. The rejection's still fresh... even after three months, apparently. I'm just glad you're being the bigger person in all this."

"Yeah? Harry told me the opposite." You lift your head only to give her a tired look. "Actually... he seemed more pissed off about him than I was. ... Don't know why."

Harry, in your world, didn't seem to care too much about Flash outside of mild annoyance whenever he pushed you around. He seemed more amused by it than anything—the ass.

MJ lifts a brow at your confused tone, waiting for something—for you to continue, probably. Continue with what, you had no idea. After a few beats of silence, she almost chokes on her dry patty.

"Are you serious, [name]?"

You blink. "What?"

"Do you seriously not know why he gets so pissed about Flash?" She says, incredulous. You look to the side, then back at her with a shrug. She splutters, "Wh—what...? Are you kidding? You're that...."

She shakes her head, cutting herself off. "[name]... Harry's in love with you. He always has been."

MJ begins to talk about how it's always been obvious, and how everyone's known except you for years, but you barely hear it over your own thoughts.

You've gone as red as your suit, eyes wide and jaw dropped like you'd just heard your mother died (oops). Your heart nearly drops into your stomach. You don't feel sick, but your stomach is twisting and turning like a tidal wave.

Harry's... what?

You never even considered it. Not in your universe—nor this one, you presume. You've always seen him as just your really rich best friend slash possible sugar papa (satirically)—but now, you can't help but wonder.

"You okay? You're really red."

A hand places itself on your forehead. When your vision unblurs and you see those disgustingly bright, blue, beautiful—

You almost yelp, scrambling away from Harry's touch. "Harry!" You say it like you're surprised he's here—like you're surprised he's able to be around you like this.

(Though—if what MJ said was true—he must really be a great actor).

Of course you're not unfamiliar with love—that Felix Hardy really knew how to get under your red webbed suit. And you don't even want to get started on Cindell Moon—

But this was different. This was really different. Felix didn't know you. He knew Spidey, and liked Spidey. The chase. The masks. Never you. Cindell was only attracted to your pheromones. He was never in love, and to be honest—it wasn't exactly a heartbreak.

You've known Harry longer than you hadn't. You've been friends with this nepo baby for a majority of your life. He's been there beside you even when you'd seen his dad end up in a psychiatric hospital on the news—crying in your arms.

For him to be in love with you—it's hitting you all at once, and you're so overwhelmed you can hardly breathe properly.

It means everything you know is different—everything changes.

Your cheeks burn brighter than Sentry's glowing fists. He seems shocked—almost hurt—that you look so scared of him. MJ, on the other hand, is very, very amused.

"[name]'s feeling pretty under the weather right now," She coos. You could only muster a weak glare toward her. Despite that—you choose to take her lie and run with it.

"Um... yeah... I think..." You gulp. Your eyes are lingering anywhere but on him. "I think I need to go home... I'm sorry."

Harry blinks. His eyes meet with MJ, who shrugs. Then he looks to you, again—almost sad. Like a puppy, more than anything. "I could get my assistant to drive you home, if you want—"

Your stomach twists at that look. You shake your head. "No... I'm fine. I—I'll get um..." You rack your brain trying to remember your butlers name—"Alfred to drive me... Thanks anyway."

You stand up as shakily as you feel—leaving your full tray of food on the table. You glance over your shoulder as you begin to walk away, bag clutched to your side. "I'll see you tomorrow, MJ." You pause. "Harry."

MJ waves, "Feel better soon. I'll be waiting for your response," and you groan.

"Take care of yourself, [name]." Harry says, with a sad smile. You swallow hard.

This was freeing. Really freeing. You'd almost forgotten how much you love being Spidey.

You swing from building to building, flipping and barrelling as you pleased. Flying through with the Gotham wind hitting your face and you slicing through the skies—you can pretend everything is fine and you're back home.

You can pretend Harry isn't in love with you. You can pretend you hadn't replaced a neglected child who's father and other siblings couldn't give less of a damn about for some reason—and you could pretend that they aren't super vigilantes themselves.

Sure, you're glad to see your friends existed in this universe—but learning your whole friendship with Harry was everything it could never have been—you're a little less than frazzled.

But, it also begged the question. Did that mean that other heroes—your other friends—also existed here? Were they also...?

You press your lips firmly together when you land on a building and stare down at the honking cars beneath you. No. You couldn't get your hopes up. Not this time.

You had to do your own research. And if that meant sneaking around on your family's computer—so be it.

Back home, it was like the flying world you had once known, grew into golden bars of a cage.

Walking through the halls of the manor gives you more strange looks than you'd like to admit. You really have to wonder how long this—well, you, has put up with this.

Tim is walking through the hall with his hands tucked into his cape and still dressed in his Red Robin costume. When you pass by him without so much as a look, he doubles back and speaks, "[name]? Wh—what are you doing here? Isn't it..."

He checks his phone. "It's still school hours?"

You glance back. "I felt sick, so I decided to come home. Still a bit frazzled from... you know. I'm just finishing up my homework."

Tim pauses. "Bruce is going to be mad. You know how he hates it when you and Damian skip."

You want to bring up how (considering he's your age) he must go to school, too, and likely skips more often than you do (again, thinking back to those diary entries), but you don't think it'll lead to anything pleasant. So you hold your tongue. "I think I'll live. Bye."

You leave with a small shrug and Tim standing behind you, brows furrowed deep.

Minutes later—you're stuck in your room, scrolling through as many articles as you can find. It's all about this Justice League, and occasionally, Batman and his Robin. Or Nightwing. Or Red Hood. Or Superboy. Or—

Okay. There's a lot of superheroes. Almost as many as the Avengers.

Maybe this wasn't the right approach—you think, after reading the 500th article about the two Superboys. You scroll more. Then—something catches your eye. A bright flame (on your screen, technically—but still just as bright) encapsulates your retina faster than you can react.

Your eyes widen.

BREAKING: New hero team? Four super-powered heroes saving civilians in fantastic ways.

No way.

You jump up from your bed and clutch your necklace. This was practically calling for you. You run out the door—blasting past Tim—with a newfound spark of hope.

Your heart practically lights up and you can't possibly get out of this house fast enough. Tim calls out your name as you zoom past—asking what the hell you're doing. He doesn't get a reply.

Tim doesn't think he's ever seen that kind of expression on your face, ever.

You're moving so fast, he's not sure if he can catch up.

Your suit forms over your pyjamas as soon as you duck into the dark of an alley, shooting a web and slinging up into the sky. If your predictions were right...

Then he should be here right now. They should be here. The last article you found was posted less than twenty hours ago.

You look around, perched on the roof. The sky is dotted with specks of red and orange—like the flames of a phoenix. Ever-burning heart. It's not as bright (yet, all the same, sears your lids) as it was when you ducked out of school—Harry and MJ surely would be home by now... wherever that home in Gotham was.

You're too locked in to try and do detective work on anything else right now.

"Come on... come on, hotshot... you're there, I know it."

You probably look crazy muttering to yourself like this. You feel like you're going crazy. You're sure he'd call you loony before grinning and hitting you with a bad pickup line. You're sure—

Suddenly, your eyes brighten and there's flickering in your refractive lenses.

Your entire body tenses with a pause—your spidey-sense going off a thousand beats a minute.

"Johnny!" Your eyes dart towards a bright speck rapidly moving. Far away. Flying, most likely. But it's him. You know it. You don't waste a second in starting to swing.

You call out his name as you rush toward his quickly departing figure. He's fast—but you're faster. You always have been, no matter how much he'd deny it.

Your heart races as fast as it can possibly go. Your heart—it's burning, alighting with hot, molten passion as you get closer, and closer, and closer—

"Johnny!"

You crash into the human matchstick and wrap your arms around him—squeezing. The warmth pools through your nanotech suit like you're hugging the sun itself (though, you aren't too sure whether the warmth tickling the inside of your ribcage is truly coming from him).

You sure are thankful you made your suit heat resistant (with Johnny in mind).

He yelps, high-pitched—losing his flight for a moment and tumbling downwards. You web and swing the two of you upwards onto a roof with ease, holding him princess style in your arms. When you let him down to stand on his own two feet, he stares at you with wide, shocked eyes.

His flames evaporate into thin air when he realises it's you, and you're laughing so joyously you could cry.

His hand reaches up, cautiously. Like you'll shatter if he isn't careful. "[name]...? Spidey, is it...?" Making sure it really, truly is you.

You nod, slowly, and the nanotech of your mask dissipates around your face. He lets out a breath he probably didn't know he was holding and engulfs you into a hug, holding you steady in his arms as low flames begin to tickle your face.

"[name]...!! [name]!!" He holds you so tightly you could be squeezed to death—but you're not complaining. Not like you usually would. Not like this. Not now. "You're... you're here? How...? How are you...?"

You pull away—though, his arms refuse to linger away from your upper arm, "What about you, idiot?! I was scared half to death when you, Sue, Ben and Reed just... disappeared one day! I was scared you...!"

You can't bring yourself to finish, so you just hit his chest, hard. He hisses and clutches the area, claiming it's going to bruise—yet, he does not stop smiling.

He slinks an arm around your shoulder (being sure your hair doesn't catch onto his flaming limb), smiling as charmingly as you remember, "Oh come on, Spidey—we both know you were just worried about me."

Your eyes squint up with your smile. He's just like you remember. Whether this was your Johnny or not... it didn't change the fact that you'd never felt closer to home.

"Try again in the next dimension, hot stuff."

And he simply grins.

Your legs dangle off the edge of the rooftop, a burger (courtesy of Johnny letting you know where are the good joints were) wrapped up nicely in your hand. Your mask only leaves your mouth exposed now as you take a bite.

You chew with starry eyes. "This tastes like...!"

"Like Stanley's, right?" His bright eyes squint upward into a boyish grin. "It's crazy how similar these worlds are."

You sigh contentedly at the familiarity, resting your head onto his shoulder. His suit is warm on your cheek. "So, Reed's tinkering really did transport you all to this world? And that's how Doc sent me tumbling here?"

He nods. "Yep. Sucks, huh? I just didn't expect you—the other you—to get caught up in this, too. What're you gonna do now? You know... with their treatment towards you."

He's clearly talking about how you overexplained their dismissal toward the you in this world. Since you practically replaced them—you're the one with the short end of the stick, while the other you is with your loving Aunt May.

"'Dunno. I'm not gonna tell them I've been transported universes—they'd probably just send me to a mental hospital. I just have to deal with it until Reed gets us out of here." You pull your knees to your chest and take another bite of your burger.

Johnny glances downwards toward where you chew—but you don't notice it.

"'Course. You're practically part of the family. You know, honorarily—till you decide to tie the knot." He winks and you can only laugh at his stupidity.

"Uhuh. Pretty comforting." You snicker. You throw the balled-up wrapper behind you, and sigh, content. "I just hope they don't find out I'm the new spider-hero. That's probably not gonna end well."

Johnny pauses, thinking. "You could always move in with us. Reed made us all fake ID's and everything—we have a pretty sweet apartment."

You shake your head, pulling your mask down over your lips. "No. It'd be even weirder if I disappeared without warning... Assuming they even noticed at all. Trust me, I'd love to—but I can't let them find out. No telling what they'd do."

"You got a point." He sighs, disappointed—as if admitting so was hard for him. "Well, regardless... You can come over whenever you like. My room's always free for you, babe."

You tilt your head to the side. "... I bet you say that to all the people you like, don't you?"

"Nah." He shakes his head, sounding oddly serious for this moment. "Not to anyone since I've had eyes on my special spider."

... Huh?

A beat of silence passes, and he seems to almost regret his words as he laughs, humourlessly. "Hah! Well—try not to piss off the big bad bat more than you already have, babe. I'll catch you later. You know my number."

Before you can even say goodbye—he flies away, leaving a streak of light in his wake.

Johnny...

You decide not to ponder what he meant by his special spider, for the sake of your own wellbeing more than anything. You swing back—into the night of Gotham and back home, where you can fade into the dark without an eye on you.

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again, if you asked to be on the taglist but aren't there, your account couldn't be tagged for whatever reason. im not too sure how tumblr works, but if you manage to fix it, ask me again!!!

(let me know if this is a me problem bcs im doing this all on my phone at 1am lol 😭)

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cloudyluun · 4 months ago

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No Cameras Allowed (p2) | famous!harry

Summary: A single photo exposes what was meant to stay hidden, throwing Y/N into a storm of scrutiny, speculation, and Harry’s growing distance. But just when the chaos seems to settle, something far worse lurks beneath the surface, waiting to destroy everything.

A/N: Me: Let’s add some angst.Also me: Accidentally ruins their lives in the process. 😇

This part has it all—smut, emotional damage, and the internet being a raging dumpster fire. If you think things can’t get worse… oh, sweet summer child. Buckle up. 😈

Alsooo!! i opened up commissions, find them here!

Word Count: 5k

Warnings:

Smut (NSFW, described sex scenes, not very explicit)

Angst (SO much angst)

Jealousy & possessiveness

Arguments, raised voices, and hurt feelings

Public exposure & media frenzy

Slut-shaming, cyberbullying & online hate

Emotional distress, panic attacks, & isolation

Sex tape leak & intense feelings of violation

Betrayal & trust issues

(If any of these are triggers for you, please read with caution or skip certain parts! 💜)

[part 1]

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

You barely make it through the door before the weight of the night crashes over you. Your heels dangle from your fingers, their straps digging into your skin, forgotten in the haze of exhaustion. The dress that once made you feel untouchable—cinched perfectly at the waist, shimmering under the ballroom lights, a second skin of confidence—is now nothing but a burden, suffocating and heavy against your body. The fabric clings to the sweat on your spine, a reminder of the hours spent dancing, smiling, pretending.

The air in your apartment is still. No distant chatter, no flashing cameras, no murmurs of speculation just out of earshot. Just silence. A stark contrast to the whirlwind of the gala, to the tension that still lingers in your chest, wound tight like a coil refusing to snap. You kick the door shut behind you, the sound echoing through the dimly lit space, grounding you.

Your hands tremble as you reach for your phone, the screen illuminating your face with a cold, blue glow. You refresh Twitter. Once. Twice. Again.

Nothing.

No blurry pictures hastily taken from the corner of the room. No speculative threads dissecting stolen glances or analyzing body language. Just the usual: best-dressed lists, articles debating the most jaw-dropping looks of the night, a few clips of drunken celebrities caught mid-slur.

You exhale, a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, and sink onto the edge of your bed. Maybe you got lucky. Maybe the fan who recognized you in that moment—who raised their phone, eyes wide with realization—decided to keep the photo to themselves.

But relief is fleeting. It never lasts long when it comes to him.

Your fingers hover over his name in your messages, muscle memory betraying you.

Maybe you were just overreacting. Maybe the fan won’t post it. Maybe this was just a false alarm—a close call, but nothing more.

You type out a message to Harry but doesn’t send it.

(What would you even say?) "That was close?" "Thought we were caught?" "I can still feel your hands on me?"

You don’t text him. You shouldn’t. You tell yourself you won’t. Instead, you lock your phone and toss it onto the duvet beside you, pressing the heels of your palms against your eyes. As if that could stop the flood of thoughts, the relentless replay of the night unraveling in your mind.

The rooftop.

The cool night air brushing against your skin, a welcome contrast to the heat that had coiled low in your stomach the moment his hand found yours. The city stretched below you, lights blinking like stars scattered across concrete. The faint hum of music from the ballroom below, distant, as if the world had momentarily paused for the two of you.

You remember the way he looked at you—really looked at you. Like he was trying to memorize every detail, as if this moment, this stolen sliver of time, was all he’d ever have. His gaze had burned through you, unspoken words resting heavy between you both. You should have walked away. You should have ignored the way his voice curled around your name, like a secret only he was meant to keep.

But you didn’t.

You stayed.

You let him pull you in, let the night swallow you whole, let yourself forget—just for a second—that there were rules, consequences, a world beyond the rooftop’s edge waiting to come crashing back in.

And now, in the quiet of your apartment, with only the hum of your thoughts and the lingering scent of his cologne on your skin, you can’t escape the truth.

You crossed a line tonight.

And the whole world might find out.

But before the rooftop, before the gala, before the lies and the secrecy, there was a beginning. A first moment. A shift in the air so subtle and yet so undeniable that even now, as you sit in the dim glow of your apartment, you can still feel it humming beneath your skin.

The first time you saw Harry, the world around you dulled. Maybe it was the sheer force of his presence, the way he occupied a room so effortlessly, all slow movements and easy confidence. Maybe it was the sound of his laughter, rich and unhurried, cutting through the noise of a crowded space like he had all the time in the world.

Or maybe it was the way he looked at you—like he had already known you before you had the chance to introduce yourself.

You weren’t supposed to notice him. You weren’t supposed to feel anything when his gaze lingered just a second too long, when his lips curved into that lazy, knowing smile that made your pulse falter. But the second his eyes found yours across the room, something clicked into place. Something inevitable.

The attraction was instant. Palpable.

You remember the way your breath caught when he spoke your name for the first time, the syllables rolling off his tongue like he was testing them, savoring them. The way conversation with him felt different—like an undercurrent of something dangerous, something waiting to pull you under.

You told yourself it was nothing. A fleeting moment. A trick of the light.

But Harry Styles was not the kind of man you forgot.

It started as a game. A dance of words, teasing and laced with something unspoken. A battle of who would fold first.

And you did.

It wasn’t supposed to mean anything. The first time it happened, it was just that—an accident, a misstep, a single night that spiraled out of control before either of you could stop it. A party, too much champagne, the sharp edge of desire pressing into your ribs.

You remember the way his fingers grazed your wrist when he reached for your drink, the way his lips quirked when he caught you staring. You remember the heat in his eyes, the way his touch burned through fabric, the moment his mouth finally crashed against yours like he had been waiting for it, like you had been waiting for it.

It was reckless. Messy. Teeth against lips, hands fisting in fabric, breathless laughter swallowed by the dark. The press of his body against yours, the sheer force of wanting him making your head spin.

And then, morning came.

And you told yourself it was a mistake.

But then it happened again. And again.

Each time, you swore it was the last. Each time, you promised yourself it was just physical, just an outlet, just something to be ignored in the light of day.

But it never was.

Because Harry didn’t just touch you—he unraveled you. He kissed you like he was memorizing you, like he was terrified you’d slip through his fingers the moment he let go. And when the world wasn’t watching, when the cameras weren’t flashing, he looked at you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground.

So you made rules.

No feelings. No expectations. No one finds out.

And in the beginning, the rules worked. They made it easier to pretend. They turned stolen glances into nothing more than coincidence, turned fleeting touches into meaningless gestures. They allowed you to lie to yourself—convince yourself that whatever this was, it wasn’t real.

But rules mean nothing when he kisses you like he’s drowning.

When his fingers tangle in your hair like he can’t bear to let go.

When he pulls you into his arms after, as if holding you in the dark is the only thing keeping him together.

And now, with your heart still racing from the night you just had, with the taste of his name still lingering on your tongue, you know one thing for certain: This was never just a game.

But you pretend it is.

You have to.

Because if you let yourself believe anything else, if you admit that this thing between you and Harry has already bled past every line you swore you wouldn’t cross, then you’re left with something fragile. Something that could shatter with a single breath.

So you do what you do best. You compartmentalize.

You throw yourself into work, letting your schedule consume you. Early morning meetings, script read-throughs, press junkets, rehearsals. Your days are meticulously planned, a well-oiled machine running on caffeine and sheer force of will.

When people ask about the gala, you keep your answers light, practiced, as if the night hadn’t ended with you pressed against the wall in a dark corner, Harry’s breath hot against your neck.

You’re good at pretending. You always have been.

But at night, when the world quiets, when there’s nothing left to distract you, the truth finds you.

Or rather, he does.

It happens like clockwork.

The text usually comes first.

"Awake?"

If you don’t answer fast enough, your phone buzzes again.

"Liar. Open the door."

And sure enough, when you tiptoe to your front door and glance through the peephole, he’s there. Hood up, hands shoved in the pockets of his hoodie, his frame half-hidden in the dim glow of the hallway light.

You hesitate for only a second before unlocking the door.

The second he steps inside, the air shifts. The easy charm, the teasing, the cocky smirk he wears in public—gone. Instead, there’s something raw in his eyes as he looks at you. Like you’re the only thing in the world that makes sense.

Neither of you speak as he toes off his boots, shedding layers as he follows you into your bedroom. You’re already crawling under the sheets when you feel the bed dip under his weight, his body warm and solid behind you.

A kiss to your bare shoulder. A whispered, “Missed you.”

You tell yourself this is enough. These quiet moments, these stolen nights.

That you don’t need more.

But that’s a lie.

Some nights, it’s reckless. Impulsive.

Your phone vibrates while you’re in the middle of a meeting, and when you glance down, the message on the screen makes your breath hitch.

"Wish I was there. On my knees. Bet I could make you come without making a sound."

You press your thighs together, biting back a smirk. He knows exactly what he’s doing. Knows that for the rest of the meeting, you’ll be restless, distracted, replaying his words in your head.

And later that night, when you finally see him, he doesn’t even let you get a word in before his mouth is on yours, hands roaming, pushing you up against the nearest surface.

"Thought about you all day," he murmurs against your lips, and the moment you part them to respond, he swallows the words whole.

And then there’s the jealousy.

It’s subtle. Unspoken. But it lingers in the space between you.

Maybe it’s an event, a photo that surfaces of you and someone else—just friendly, nothing more. Maybe it’s work, a scene you had to film with a male co-star, your bodies too close, your laughter lingering a second too long.

He never says anything. Not really.

But later that night, his hands are rougher. His grip tightens on your hips, fingers digging into your skin. He fucks you deep, slow, deliberate. Like he’s trying to carve himself into you, trying to erase anyone else’s touch.

"You’re mine," he breathes against your throat, and you don’t argue.

Because you are.

And then there are the mornings. The only time when the heat has burned itself out and there’s nothing left but softness.

The warmth of his fingers tracing patterns along your back. His lips skimming your temple, voice thick with sleep as he murmurs, “So perfect like this.”

Like this.

Like he already knows these moments aren’t meant to last.

And for a while, it’s easy to believe the secret is safe.

That the picture from the gala will never surface.

That no one will ever find out.

At one point, you even joke about it, stretching lazily against the sheets as you grin up at him. “Imagine if someone finds out? They’d probably think I kidnapped you.”

Harry smirks, fingers trailing down your thigh, amusement flickering in his gaze. “You kinda did.”

It feels like a game.

Until it isn’t.

You wake up to chaos.

The sharp, relentless vibration of your phone drags you from sleep, the screen lighting up with notification after notification, the soft glow casting eerie shadows across your bedroom. You blink against the brightness, still half-asleep, reaching blindly for your phone.

And then you see it.

Your name. His name.

Trending. Everywhere.

A cold weight settles in your stomach as you swipe to unlock your phone, your heart hammering against your ribs. Your vision blurs for a second as you take in the headlines, the sheer speed at which the world has latched onto something that—until now—had belonged only to the two of you.

Harry Styles’ Secret Romance EXPOSED! Who Is the Mystery Girl Holding Hands with Harry Styles? Fans Speculate: Harry’s Hidden Relationship REVEALED!

Your stomach twists painfully as you scroll, your hands trembling around your phone. And then—

The picture.

It’s unmistakable.

The two of you leaving the gala, his fingers laced through yours. The way he’s looking at you—not just a glance, not something casual, but something intense. The angle makes it painfully obvious, the intimacy written all over you.

Your breath catches in your throat.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

You were careful. You always were. Every stolen glance, every fleeting touch, every moment behind closed doors—it was yours. No cameras. No press. No speculation.

But now?

It’s out.

And the internet is on fire.

The comments are instant. Loud. Unforgiving.

Some are excited, supportive.

"He looks so happy! Whoever she is, she must be amazing.""I knew it! He’s been glowing lately!""As long as she treats him right, I’m happy for them."

But others—

"Who even is she??""She’s just using him for clout.""She’s not even famous. She’s NOTHING.""Homewrecker. Slut. Gold digger."

The words slice through you, sharp and merciless. They don’t even know you, but that doesn’t matter.

You were naïve to think they’d be kind.

You knew what happened to women in his orbit. You’d seen it before—the scrutiny, the invasiveness, the vitriol. You had just hoped… maybe, somehow, it would be different.

You were wrong.

And the worst part?

You don’t know how Harry is handling it.

You call him.

Straight to voicemail.

Your pulse pounds as you try again, fingers gripping the phone too tightly.

Still nothing.

Panic coils in your chest as you check your texts. No messages. No missed calls.

Just silence.

Meanwhile, your team is already reaching out.

Your phone buzzes with an incoming call from your manager. Your publicist. A flurry of texts asking how to handle the situation.

Do you deny it? Ignore it? Release a statement?

But you have no answers.

Because the only person who matters isn’t answering his damn phone.

Then, finally—

It rings.

You don’t even hesitate. You answer immediately, your voice breathless, frantic.

"Harry—"

But his voice—

It’s cold. Distant.

"We need to talk."

The words sit heavy in the air between you, weighted with something dark, something dangerous.

You hesitate for only a second before whispering, “Okay.”

The moment you see him, you know.

He’s waiting for you in his hotel room, standing near the window, hands shoved deep into his pockets. His posture is stiff, his shoulders drawn tight, tension radiating off him in waves.

His jaw is clenched, his lips pressed into a thin line.

He hasn’t even said a word yet, but your chest is already tight.

This is bad.

The door clicks shut behind you, and you take a step forward, arms crossed over your chest like they might shield you from whatever’s coming.

"Say something," you murmur.

Harry finally turns, his eyes locking onto yours. And for the first time since you met him, they’re unreadable.

"What do you want me to say?"

"I don’t know. Maybe that it’s not a big deal?" You shrug, trying to keep your voice steady. "It’s just a picture, Harry. People will talk for a few days, and then they’ll move on."

He lets out a sharp, humorless laugh, shaking his head. "You don’t get it. This isn’t just about us. This is my life."

"And what am I, then?" You step closer, heat rising in your chest. "Just someone you fuck in the dark?"

The silence that follows is deafening.

His throat bobs as he swallows, his jaw tightening further.

That’s the answer, isn’t it? The thing neither of you have ever said out loud.

"You keep me hidden like I’m your biggest mistake."

His head snaps up at that, something flickering behind his eyes. He shakes his head quickly, voice raw. "You’re not a mistake."

"Then why are you acting like I am?"

You’re too worked up to stop now, to soften the blow, to think before you speak.

"Jesus, Harry. Do you know what it feels like to be with someone who refuses to claim you? Who never reaches for your hand in public, who won’t even look at you too long when other people are around? Like I’m some dirty little secret you have to keep?"

"That’s not—" He runs a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. "That’s not what this is, and you fucking know it."

"Then what is it?" Your voice is hoarse now, the frustration bleeding into something more vulnerable. Something fragile. "Because to me, it feels like I’m always going to be the girl you love behind closed doors but pretend not to know when the lights come on."

That gets him.

His entire body stiffens, his fingers twitching at his sides.

Love.

You said love.

And you don’t take it back.

His breath is uneven when he finally speaks. "I just—fuck, I didn’t want this for you. I didn’t want you to go through this."

You stare at him, the fight temporarily knocked out of you.

"What?"

He exhales, pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose. "The media. The rumors. The hate. The way they tear apart every woman I’ve ever been seen with. I didn’t want you to have to deal with that. You don’t deserve it."

"So you were protecting me?" The words taste bitter on your tongue. "By making me feel like I don’t exist?"

Harry’s eyes squeeze shut, and for a second, he looks wrecked.

"I didn’t mean for it to be like this."

"But it is."

It hangs between you, heavy and unmovable.

Neither of you speaks. Neither of you moves.

You don’t break up.

But something between you fractures.

The distance is immediate.

A coldness that lingers in the spaces where warmth used to be.

Harry doesn’t text as much. Calls grow infrequent. Conversations turn shallow, safe, as if you’re both terrified of touching the wound too soon, of reopening something that’s still bleeding beneath the surface.

You don’t reach out either. Maybe it’s better this way.

Maybe space will fix what words couldn’t.

But then—something shatters the fragile truce.

You’re sitting on your couch, scrolling mindlessly, when the clip appears.

A headline first.

HARRY STYLES BREAKS HIS SILENCE ON DATING RUMORS

Your stomach knots.

With shaking hands, you press play.

The video starts mid-interview, Harry perched on a plush chair, microphone in hand. He’s wearing one of his usual tailored suits, his hair messily tousled in that effortless way only he can pull off. The crowd laughs at something he just said, the interviewer leaning in with a conspiratorial grin.

And then, the dreaded question.

“So, Harry, there have been some rumors lately… A certain photo making the rounds. Any truth to it? Are you seeing someone?”

The air in your lungs turns solid.

Harry stills, just barely. It’s subtle; the faintest stiffening of his shoulders, the almost imperceptible tension in his jaw. But you see it. You know him.

And then he smiles. That easy, practiced grin, the kind that charms the world but makes your stomach twist.

He laughs, brushing the question off like it’s nothing.

“People love to speculate, don’t they?” he says lightly. “I’m just focused on my music right now.”

Your heart stumbles over itself.

No denial. No confirmation.

The interviewer doesn’t let it go.

“So, you’re saying you’re single?”

The silence lasts half a second too long.

And then—

“Yeah,” Harry says, smooth and effortless, not a single waver in his voice. “I’m single.”

The world stills.

You can’t breathe.

The clip ends. Your screen fades to black. But the words linger. The weight of them presses down on your chest, heavy and suffocating.

"I’m single."

Like you never happened.

Like the nights spent tangled together, the whispered confessions in the dark, the way he held you like he never wanted to let go—none of it meant anything.

Your hands tremble as you exit the video, but it’s too late. The internet is already burning.

#HarryIsSingle trends within minutes.

Fans take his words as gospel. Theories shift. Maybe you were just a hookup. Maybe you made the whole thing up. Maybe you’re obsessed with him.

The hate floods in fast.

Your DMs. Your mentions. A hurricane of strangers dissecting your life, your worth, your place in his world.

You’re a liar. A desperate fangirl. A delusional girl who thought she was special, who was using Harry for his fame.

And worst of all?

Harry doesn’t reach out.

Not even a text.

You don’t cry. Not at first.

You just sit there, numb, watching your phone vibrate with notifications you refuse to read.

Then the anger comes.

Slow, simmering, bubbling up from the depths of something raw and wounded until it erupts.

That night, when your phone finally lights up with his name—just a simple, “Hey”—you don’t respond.

But he doesn’t let it go.

An hour later, there’s a knock at your door.

You hesitate for only a second before pulling it open.

Harry stands on the other side, hands stuffed into his pockets, eyes scanning your face. And the second he sees your expression, he knows.

“You saw it.”

Your laugh is sharp, bitter. “Saw what? You telling the whole fucking world you’re single?”

He exhales heavily, dragging a hand through his hair. “It’s not that simple.”

You scoff. “Isn’t it? Because from where I’m standing, it looked pretty fucking easy for you.”

“It wasn’t easy,” he snaps. “But what was I supposed to do? Announce to the world that we’re together? Let the media tear us apart?”

Your eyes flash. “Better to pretend I don’t exist, right?”

He takes a step forward, his voice tight with frustration. “You’re twisting this.”

You shake your head. “No, Harry. I’m finally seeing it for what it is.”

Silence.

A long, painful pause where neither of you know what to say.

And then, barely above a whisper—

“You don’t get to do this to me. Not again.”

His brows furrow. “Again?”

Your throat tightens. The truth sits heavy in your chest.

You swallow hard. “You did this before.” Your voice is hollow, empty. “Back then. When we started this. You acted like it didn’t mean anything. Like I didn’t mean anything. And I let you.”

Harry’s expression crumbles. Guilt flickers in his eyes, his lips parting like he wants to argue, to tell you you’re wrong.

But he doesn’t.

Because he knows.

“That’s not true.” His voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper.

“Isn’t it?” Your voice breaks. “Because that’s how it fucking feels.”

For the first time, he has no defense.

And you don’t have the energy to fight anymore.

You take a step back. Your chest aches, your eyes sting, but your voice is steady when you say it—

“Just go, Harry.”

He hesitates.

But you don’t waver.

Finally, he nods. Turns. Leaves.

And this time—

You don’t think he’s coming back.

You didn’t think things could get worse.

You thought the storm had passed. That the damage had been done. That the worst of it was behind you.

But then—your phone rings.

It’s your manager. Their voice is clipped, urgent. “You need to see this.”

Your stomach drops.

There’s something in their tone. Something that makes your skin prickle with unease.

You pull your phone away from your ear, heart hammering as you open the link they sent.

And then—your world crumbles.

The screen loads. A video. Camera footage. Grainy but unmistakable.

You. Harry. The gala night.

The intimacy of it—the way he’s touching you, the way he’s whispering things only meant for you—it’s all out there, laid bare for the world to see.

You feel like you’re going to be sick.

Your vision tunnels, fingers tightening around your phone as the weight of it all crashes down on you.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

This was yours. His.

Something private. Something that was never meant for the world to see.

And now—it’s everywhere.

Your hands shake as you scroll.

Trending: - “Harry Styles sex tape” - “Who leaked Harry’s video?” - “Y/N is ruining his life”

The internet is cruel. Ruthless.

The comments flood in, thousands of voices screaming over one another:

- “She probably leaked it herself for attention.” - “Poor Harry. He deserves better than this mess.” - “She’s disgusting. A clout chaser.” - “She’s trying to trap him.” - “Harry needs to leave her for good.”

They defend him. They attack you.

As if you planned this. As if you wanted this.

As if this isn’t your literal worst nightmare.

Your breath comes too fast, too shallow. You try to inhale, but your lungs won’t cooperate.

Your phone slips from your grasp, clattering onto the floor.

Harry is calling. Again and again.

You don’t answer.

Because what could he possibly say to fix this?

Nothing.

There is no fixing this.

But that doesn’t stop him from trying.

Within the hour, your phone won’t stop vibrating. Your manager. Your PR team. News outlets. Lawyers. And then Harry, over and over again.

Then: a knock at your door.

You freeze.

Your hands grip the edge of the counter, knuckles white.

You don’t want to see him. You don’t want to look him in the eyes, see whatever shattered version of him is waiting on the other side.

But you do.

The door creaks open.

And there he is.

Disheveled. Jaw clenched. Eyes burning.

A storm contained within flesh and bone.

He steps forward, into your space, into your orbit, like he’s drawn to you despite the wreckage between you.

His voice is raw, barely above a whisper. “Are you okay?”

You laugh. A sharp, bitter sound. “Am I okay?”

Your eyes burn as you shake your head. “Harry, the whole fucking world just watched us—watched me.” Your voice cracks, but you force yourself to keep going. “And they think it’s my fault.”

He exhales sharply, his hand raking through his hair. “I know. I know, and I’m going to fix this.”

“Fix it?” You step back, the words tasting like poison. “How the fuck do you fix something like this?”

He looks at you then—really looks at you—and there’s something in his eyes. Something wild, desperate. Guilt. Rage. Fear.

But before he can answer—before he can try to convince you that there’s a way out of this—

Your phone dings.

The sound cuts through the moment like a blade.

Your heart pounds as you glance at the screen.

Another notification. A new article.

And then—

Your breath catches in your throat.

Because it’s not just about the leaked tape anymore.

It’s worse. So much worse.

Your entire body goes cold as you read the headline:

“EXCLUSIVE: INSIDER REVEALS WHO LEAKED HARRY STYLES’ SEX TAPE.”

Your vision blurs, hands trembling as you click the link.

The page loads. Your stomach drops.

And then—

The name staring back at you makes your blood run cold.

You don’t realize you’ve spoken out loud until you hear your own voice, barely a whisper.

“No… No, that’s not possible.”

Harry’s eyes snap to you, his expression shifting instantly.

“What? What is it?” He reaches for the phone, but you yank it away, gripping it so tightly your knuckles turn white.

Your head shakes, disbelief crashing over you in violent waves.

Because the person who leaked it…

It wasn’t some hacker. It wasn’t a random invasion of privacy. It was someone close. Someone you trusted.

And now?

Now, the real betrayal begins.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

[part 3]

Thank you so much for reading! I appreciate any support so remember to comment, reblog, & like ❤️‍🔥

taglist:

@oscahpastry, @mema10, @angelbabyyy99, @iloveharrystyles04, @cinemharry, @drwho06, @donutsandpalmtrees, @panini, @mads3502; @imgonnadreamaboutthewayyoutaaaa, @one-sweet-gubler, @rizosrizos26, @ciriceimpera, @everyscarisahealingplace, @hello-heyhi, @sexymfharriet, @lizsogolden, @hannah9921, @chicabonitasblog, @huhidontknowstuff, @berrywoods1245, @jennovaaa, @angeldavis777, @prettygurl-2009, @almostcontentcreator, @run-for-the-hills, @maudie-duan, @dipmeinhoneyh, @harrrrystylesslut, @georgiarose94, @stylestarkey, @watarmelon212

#harry styles #harry styles fic #harry styles writing #harry styles x reader #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles imagine #harry styles one shot #harry styles x y/n #harry styles smut #harry styles fluff #cloudyluun #famous!harry #famous!reader

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rosachae · 1 month ago

Text

bitches and courtrooms | daniela avanzini x reader

⁍ song: illegal - pinkpantheress ⁍ requested: yes! thank you anon ⁍ genre: business firm lawyer AU ⁍ a/n: to the anon who requested this, i hope this tickles your fancy. i fear i might've gone off prompt a little bit (no arranged marriage titbits) but when i started, i just kept going lol. sorry if this isn't quite what you were looking for ⁍ wc: 4.2k ⁍ warnings: curt language, suggestive, maybe somewhat nsfw? prepare to be blue balled ⁍ synopsis:

daniela avanzini is frustrating. a cold, meticulous, condescending litigation lawyer from a large business firm. when her firm does a merger with y/n's, y/n is forced to deal with her shenanigans until finally the tension between them snaps.

the brooklyn apartment glowed with that soft, golden warmth that only happened when the overheads were off and the lamps were doing all the work. the windows were cracked just enough to let in the hum of the city. sirens in the distance, a car horn somewhere below, the faint buzz of a deli sign flickering across the street.

a half-empty bottle of red sat on the coffee table next to a bowl of popcorn and a very defeated-looking pack of chocolate-covered almonds. two wine glasses rested within easy reach, both smudged from laughter and lipstick. harry styles hummed quietly from manon’s speaker in the corner, some deep cut with just enough heartbreak in it to feel appropriate for a thursday night.

sophia was curled into the corner of the couch, mid-rant about a date gone catastrophically wrong. she waved a makeup brush like it was a weapon, eyes wide with disbelief.

“—and then he says, and i quote, ‘the heeseung experience does not do coffee on the first date.’ like he was pitching himself for the bachelor or something. like who the hell does that? and in third person?? ”

manon, sprawled on the opposite end with her legs thrown over a velvet ottoman, snorted into her glass. the candle flickering on the windowsill smelled vaguely like overpriced sandalwood and fading ambition.

they were in peak wine night mode. then the front door slammed open.

“—and that’s my cue,” manon muttered, already reaching for the remote to lower the music. “brace yourself.”

y/n burst through the door like a category five storm in business casual. jacket slung over one arm, hair wind-tossed and slightly undone, shoes in hand like she’d just come from battle.

“you would not believe the flaming pile of bullshit i just had to stand through for three hours.”

“hi y/n,” sophia said, calmly sipping her wine. “how was court?”

“court was a dumpster fire soaked in gasoline, and guess who brought the match? daniela fucking avanzini.”

manon exchanged a glance with sophia, then scooted over to make room on the couch. y/n threw herself down like the cushions would swallow her whole.

“daniela again?” manon asked, handing her the wine bottle without being asked.

“she was there. at my trial. uninvited. just… looming like a designer-clad vulture. and then, as i’m leaving, she decides to give me a TED Talk on everything i did wrong. like i asked for her commentary.” she scoffs, taking the wine bottle from manon without a hitch. and then she grumbled. “bitch.”

sophia was already refilling her glass. “so, another love confession from your work nemesis.”

“she is not my nemesis. and it is not love.”

“okay.”

“she’s a smug, frozen robot in heels who thrives on making my life miserable.”

“and yet you always bring her up with the emotional intensity of a jane austen protagonist,” sophia said.

“i do not—”

“you do,” manon added, leaning back, wine glass in hand. “i’ve seen less tension in crime dramas.”

y/n groaned, covering her face. “she acts like i lost the case because i tripped over my own shoes or something. like it had nothing to do with the fact that my client is a walking federal indictment.”

“you did trip over your own shoes at the bar exam,” manon pointed out helpfully.

“that was her fault.”

“was it?” sophia asked, raising an eyebrow.

but y/n didn’t answer. for a moment, she just sat there, jaw tight, mind spinning. the scene replayed itself behind her eyes. every word, every glance, every infuriating detail.

the courtroom was too quiet. the kind of quiet that sank into your bones, made every breath feel like a betrayal. y/n stood there, shoulders square, jaw locked, while the judge read the verdict.

“guilty on all counts.”

her client didn’t even react. not really. he probably saw it coming too. the case had been a mess from the start. too much surveillance footage, too many witnesses, and a paper trail that could’ve wrapped the entire defense table in red tape. it was a loss she’d seen coming weeks ago. but that didn’t make it sting any less.

she nodded once, stiff, to her client as the bailiff stepped in. then she gathered her files, quick and sharp, refusing to let anyone see just how much it burned.

the hallway outside was cooler, quieter. she moved fast, the echo of her shoes trailing behind her. she was almost at the elevator when a voice sliced through the space like a scalpel.

“you overplayed the expert witness.”

she stopped walking. sighed.

“jesus christ.”

“you should’ve gone after him in voir dire,” the voice continued, smooth, detached. “by the time you got him on cross, the jury already liked him.”

y/n turned, slowly. of course it was her.

daniela leaned against the wall like she owned the place, coffee in one hand, every inch of her poised and flawless. her blouse and tailored suit pants hugged her figure perfectly, and the blazer she wore looked like it had been stitched just for her. sharp, couture, effortlessly commanding attention. her dark brown curls framed her face, contrasting with her smooth, glowing skin. hazel-brown eyes caught the light just right, sharp and unreadable, with a small beauty mark perched above her right eyebrow. her full, plump lips were set in a knowing smirk, and the gold hoop earrings she wore somehow managed to make her look even more polished and put-together. she was the kind of gorgeous you didn’t forget, even if you wanted to.

god, how much y/n wanted to.

“thanks for the unsolicited feedback,” y/n said flatly. “been waiting all day to get condescended to.”

“just figured you’d want to know where you went wrong. might help next time.”

“what, you taking pity on me now?”

“no. i just hate watching sloppy strategy.”

y/n exhaled, sharp through her nose. it was always like this with daniela. ever since the bar exam. ever since that cursed morning when they both showed up at the same testing center, late, frazzled, blaming each other for everything from bad signage to stolen parking spots.

“you still bringing up voir dire like it’s the golden ticket to every case?”

“when it’s the reason you lost? absolutely.”

“you really watched the whole thing?”

daniela sipped her coffee. “some of it. you’re hard to ignore when you’re flailing.”

“wow. really leaning into the ice queen thing today, huh?”

“just telling the truth.”

“well, here’s some truth back — you’re a bitch.”

“you're still listening.”

that made y/n pause. for a second, she almost — almost — slapped the latina up the face. but she supposed that was a little treat for another day. she was a professional. always has been, always would be. instead she turned toward the elevator, jabbing the button roughly.

“see you around, avanzini.”

“you will.”

the doors slid open. y/n stepped in without looking back, but she felt daniela’s gaze like a weight between her shoulder blades the whole way down.

y/n shook her head, forcing herself out of the spiral. at that point, all she wanted was to forget. forget the lousy court hearing, the botched trial, the inevitable outcome. she was fiercely competitive, maddeningly so. losing the case mattered more to her than any petty rivalry with insufferable lawyers from other firms. so why did daniela’s smug, honeyed gaze bother her so damn much? it made her want to tear her hair out.

she let out a low hum and glanced toward the kitchen.

“do we have anything stronger than red wine?”

manon laughed softly, one brow raised. “aiming for straight-up legal amnesia, huh?” she stood up, setting her glass down on the coffee table. “i don’t know about that, but we’ve got something stashed in the kitchen. might help dull the daniela-shaped hole in your brain.”

y/n groaned and let her body flop sideways, body feeling suddenly heavy under the weight of the day. she sprawled out until her head was resting in sophia’s lap. sophia, ever the comforter, began gently patting her hair.

“please tell me it’s not some hipster single malt that costs more than our rent.”

“nah,” manon said with a grin. “just the cheap stuff that does the trick. come on, let’s get you out of lawyer mode for the night.”

sophia smiled down at y/n, voice soft and warm. “yeah, tonight’s about forgetting courtrooms, verdicts, and that insufferable ice queen.”

y/n nodded, feeling the tight knot in her shoulders begin to ease. “okay, i’m in. whiskey and bad tv it is.”

manon flicked off the lamps, leaving only the soft glow of fairy lights to cast warm, cozy shadows across the room. she paused the harry styles playlist and switched on the tv, its colorful rgb hues washing over them as bella swan’s familiar, slightly moody face filled the screen.

“perfect. wine night just got an upgrade.”

“…this merger will be good for us. for both of us. effective immediately, starting tomorrow, we’ll be sharing their office space.”

y/n was already having a shit morning. too much red wine and whiskey the night before. woke up with a headache and a bad mood, rolled off the wrong side of the bed, then promptly tripped over a shoe she’d left in the doorway. somehow, she still managed to pull herself together and make it to the office at exactly 9:00 a.m.

now she wished she’d stayed home.

she stood on the far side of the managing partner’s desk, arms crossed, expression flat, while he rubbed at his temples like he was prepping for a storm. and maybe he was. he knew her well enough to expect an explosion the second the news hit.

their firm was merging with a rival, k.e. legal.

daniela’s firm.

y/n paced in front of gong yoo’s desk, her expression etched with pure displeasure.

“you can’t be serious. them? of all firms?”

“y/n, you have to understand—this isn’t a bad thing. it’s a competitive field, what we do. and if we keep taking hits like the one you took yesterday, we’re going to need the backup.”

she knew what he meant. their firm was mid-tier at best, scrappy and stubborn, with a reputation for going after powerful corporations. daniela, on the other hand, was a high-profile corporate litigator at a significantly more successful firm. sleek. efficient. ruthless.

the merger made sense on paper. but y/n couldn’t shake the sting. because of all the firms to lean on—why did it have to be hers?

“you’re seriously bringing up yesterday’s shitshow as an excuse?” y/n snapped. “i’ve worked my ass off for years securing wins in court. yesterday’s trial was rigged from the start. unreal.”

gong yoo sighed. maybe for the tenth time since she’d stormed in.

“that’s not what i meant, y/n. my point is, their firm has resources we don’t. influence we don’t. losing costs too much. winning doesn’t pay enough. this merger gives us financial stability. and unless you’re eager to lose your job over budget cuts…”

she didn’t answer right away. the fight in her cooled, just a notch.

finally, she stopped pacing. dropped into the chair across from him with a heavy exhale.

“why now?” y/n asked, brows drawn tight. “why are they even open to this merger? what could they possibly want from us?”

gong yoo hesitated, then let out a low hum.

“you.”

she blinked. “me?”

“from what i understand, avanzini specifically requested you work with her team. you know how it goes, y/n. when someone of her stature speaks, management listens.”

of course they did.

everyone listened to daniela avanzini.

daniela and her spotless record.

daniela and that uncanny, almost supernatural ability to sway an entire courtroom with nothing but her voice and a well-timed look.

and now, apparently, she wanted y/n on her team.

whatever that meant.

she probably just wanted to humiliate her some more. to make her life a living hell more than she already did. gloat in her face, remind her how inferior she is.

y/n groaned.

someone kill her now.

it was almost like daniela took some kind of sick pleasure in annoying y/n.

it’d been a month since the merger. since then, daniela had found endless ways to needle her.

like showing up unannounced in y/n’s office with a smug grin, casually dropping legal jargon that y/n barely recognized, just to watch her stumble.

or assigning y/n to impossible deadlines, then sending a pointed message asking if she was “really sure she wanted to handle such a complex case alone.”

there were the endless “friendly” debates over courtroom strategies that always ended with daniela dismissing y/n’s ideas with a raised eyebrow and a quiet, “interesting, but let me handle this.”

and of course, there was that one time daniela casually suggested they share the same office space. of course, when daniela spoke, people listened.

every day since had been a constant reminder that y/n was under daniela’s watchful, teasing gaze. it was subtle, relentless, impossible to ignore. now that her desk sat just inches from daniela’s in their cramped shared office, ignoring it was downright impossible. especially when daniela looked that good.

for all her provocations and shenanigans, daniela was stunning in a way words couldn’t capture. a quiet, effortless kind of gorgeous that made y/n’s chest tighten every time she caught her eye.

her eyes seemed to shift color with the light, but it was when the glow from her computer screen lit up her face that y/n noticed them most. honey-colored, warm and impossible to look away from. they were deceiving. soft and inviting, despite the sharp edge beneath her polished exterior. even through all of daniela’s teasing and sharp remarks, y/n couldn’t help but shiver when those eyes met hers, quietly unraveling something she wasn’t ready to face.

then there was the skirts. unassuming, respectable. but she didn’t miss the way they seemed to kite a little higher on her thighs when they were alone.

some part of y/n felt guilty. disgusting. but those feelings disappeared the day she realized that maybe, it was intended afterall.

one afternoon, y/n was buried under a pile of case files when daniela appeared at her desk, leaning over with that infuriating smirk. she dropped a folder right in front of y/n, so close their hands brushed. “thought you might need this,” she said, voice low and deliberate.

y/n looked up, heart hammering. not from the work, but from the way daniela’s eyes locked onto hers, sharp and unreadable. it wasn’t just a simple gesture. it never was. her plump lips tilted up at the corners, and y/n had to fight the urge of looking down.

later, when y/n caught daniela watching her from across the room, the way her gaze held a trace of something more—something carefully controlled—y/n couldn’t deny it anymore. every tease, every challenge, every glance wasn’t just to get under her skin. it was purposeful.

and suddenly, the game felt a lot more dangerous.

it all came to a standstill on a friday afternoon.

“aw, are you sure you can’t make it? we can wait…?” manon’s voice sounded through the office, somewhat staticy from y/n’s speaker.

y/n sighed. it was the third night that week that daniela dropped files onto her desk, something about preparing for an upcoming case. but of course, it was always too much. here she sat at 8pm, the office already emptying. as far as she knew, it was just her. maybe some stragglers getting ready to go home for the night, but she couldn’t care less. she grumbled.

“yeah, sorry manz. you know how it is.”

manon audibly sighed on the other end of the line, a combination of pity and empathetic frustration.

“queen bitch keeping you late again with nonsense? honestly, y/n, i don’t know how you put up with it.”

“yeah… me neither.”

it was then the office door creaked open, and daniela stepped in. she grazed her eyes over y/n for the briefest second, a coy smirk tilting her lips, before she shut the door behind herself with a click.

y/n rolled her eyes instinctively and turned back to the papers on her desk. yet still, she couldn’t help but follow daniela’s figure in her peripheral. couldn’t help but watch as she mulled around her own desk before walking over to the photocopier.

manon’s voice breaking the silence had her diverting her attention away.

“okay, well just call me when you’re on your way home? i miss doing stuff together. you’ve been stuck at the office like everyday this week.”

y/n, despite whatever frustration spewed inside her from the mere presence of the latina woman across the room, felt a fond grin cross her lips.

“of course, manz. see you later. have fun tonight.”

and that was it. manon’s voice, along with the low crackle of static, vanished with a press of a button. for a moment, the room settled into a still, muted quiet. just the soft rustle of paper and the occasional hum and click of the photocopier in the corner.

then, daniela broke the silence.

“something’s wrong with the machine.”

y/n looked up. daniela was frowning at the copier, tapping its screen with increasing frustration as a series of dull beeps and the unmistakable crunch of a paper jam followed. with a quiet sigh, y/n set her pen down and stood.

she crossed the room and crouched beside the machine, peering into its inner workings. daniela didn’t say anything. she just watched. her arms were folded tightly across her chest, her lips pressed into a flat line. her gaze stayed fixed on y/n, sharp and unreadable, like she was trying to figure something out.

then, she hummed. y/n nearly bumped her head against the photocopier in surprise.

“manz,” daniela said, leaning her weight against the desk behind her with infuriating ease. “that your girlfriend?”

y/n didn’t even glance at her. “what’s it to you?”

“just wondering how anyone could find something worth loving in a mess like you.”

y/n stood slowly, turning to face her. the sting of the words didn’t land quite right. too familiar, too rehearsed. honestly, she was surprised it had taken this long to boil over. to finally, finally snap under the weight of daniela’s constant jabs and smirks.

she glared. “you think you’re special or something? getting off on being a bitch all the time?”

daniela’s smile didn’t waver. in fact, it widened. her gaze flicked down, then back up, deliberately slow. calculating.

“who said i wasn’t?”

y/n’s breath hitched. just for a second. because there was something else in daniela’s voice now. lower, silkier. less bite, more pull. her posture hadn’t changed, but her eyes… her eyes were doing something else entirely.

“you really don’t get it, do you?” daniela went on, stepping closer. “i don’t tease just anyone.”

y/n held her ground, though her heart kicked up a little. “could’ve fooled me.”

“no,” daniela murmured, now close enough that y/n could smell her perfume—subtle, heady, expensive. “i don’t waste my time on people who don’t matter.”

their eyes locked. heat crackled in the air between them. y/n could feel it coiling low in her stomach, that sharp tug of something dangerous and electric.

“so what,” y/n said, voice lower now, more controlled, “this is your idea of flirting?”

daniela’s lips curved. “depends. is it working?”

for a beat, neither of them moved. just the soft hum of the copier behind them, still jammed and forgotten.

daniela’s smile turned lazy, like she already had the answer. like she always did.

but y/n didn’t move. didn’t flinch.

she crossed her arms instead, cocked her head. “you’re really out here acting like i should be flattered.”

“i mean,” daniela drawled, “you are looking at me like you want to either kill me or climb me, so.”

“don’t flatter yourself.”

“too late.”

there was a glint in daniela’s eye now. something wolfish. she leaned in just enough to crowd y/n’s space, but not enough to touch. not quite. her voice dropped a note.

“come on, sweetheart. all this fire just for me?”

y/n gave her a slow, cold once-over. “no, i save it for every walking red flag with a superiority complex.”

daniela’s tongue clicked against her teeth. “cute. but let’s not pretend you don’t like it when someone pushes your buttons.”

“and let’s not pretend you’re special for thinking you can.”

that made daniela’s smile twitch. tight, like it bit the inside of her cheek.

“you really think you’re hard to read, huh?”

“no,” y/n said flatly. “i just think you’re bad at reading.”

daniela stepped in a little closer, the air between them stretched so tight it could’ve snapped. their knees almost touched. y/n didn’t move back. refused to give her that satisfaction.

“i could make you melt,” daniela said, soft and sure, like it was fact.

“and i could break your nose,” y/n replied, dry. “so i guess we both have our talents.”

a beat of silence. daniela laughed—low, from her throat, like it genuinely caught her off guard. her eyes never left y/n’s.

“you’re trouble.”

“you’re predictable.”

“and yet here you are.”

“only because your stupid ass jammed the copier.”

then daniela tilted her head. just slightly, but enough. like she was savoring the tension, dragging it out like a game she had no intention of losing. like the challenge itself was a reward. she looked at y/n the way someone might look at a storm on the horizon. inevitable, thrilling, dangerous.

and y/n gave her what she wanted.

“all this bite on you,” daniela murmured. “where was that confidence when your ass was getting dragged across the courtroom floor? pathetic.”

it was stupid. so stupid that that was what did it. not the smirks. not the flirting. not the month of passive-aggressive remarks and veiled jabs. but that. the reminder that she’d lost. that she hadn’t been the sharpest one in the room that day.

y/n had always been a competitor. she could take teasing. she could take flirting. but being called pathetic?

no. not from her.

she moved without thinking.

one second, daniela was lounging in her space like she owned it. the next, y/n had her by the front of her blazer, yanked her forward, and spun them. swift, sharp, practiced.

now it was daniela’s back pressed hard against the edge of the photocopier, her eyes slightly wider, breath catching as y/n closed in.

“try saying that again,” y/n said, her voice low, lethal. “see what happens.”

her breath was hot against daniela’s mouth, close enough to kiss, but rigid with restraint. y/n wasn’t caving. not yet. not completely.

daniela didn’t flinch. didn’t pull away.

her lips parted just slightly, like she was about to say something— maybe another jab, maybe something worse— but nothing came out. she was looking at y/n like she couldn’t decide if she wanted to push again or surrender.

the silence between them pulsed. the air was thick with it. rage, heat, tension so tight it could’ve cracked the machine behind them.

y/n’s hand was still gripping her lapel.

“what’s wrong?” she whispered, mouth barely an inch from daniela’s. “not so smug now?”

daniela let out a breathless laugh, low and rough, her eyes darker now—almost daring.

“you’re so hot when you’re mad.”

y/n’s grip on her blazer tightened.

“i can’t stand you.”

something shifted in daniela’s gaze. like everything she’d said, everything she was, had been leading to this exact second. a trap she’d set and stepped into willingly. her voice dropped to a whisper, lips grazing the edge of y/n’s.

so close, so maddeningly close, the heat of her breath brushing against y/n’s skin.

“then do something about it.”

y/n didn’t need a second invitation.

in one swift motion, she spun daniela around. the sound of fabric shifting, the gasp that caught in daniela’s throat, the hard thud of hips meeting the photocopier. it all blurred together.

her hand tangled in daniela’s hair, gripping a fistful of sleek black curls. she pushed her down, just enough. not hard. just firm. commanding.

daniela’s cheek hit the cool surface of the copier, lips parted against the glass. the machine whirred helplessly beneath them, paper jamming deeper with every second.

but neither of them cared.

y/n hovered behind her, breathing hard.

her voice, when she spoke, was low and steady and sharp enough to cut.

“this what you wanted?”

daniela’s eyes flicked sideways, barely able to meet hers in the reflection of the scanner glass.

“getting there,” she murmured.

y/n leaned down, lips brushing just behind daniela’s ear.

“then shut up and take it.”

daniela shivered.

but she didn’t say another word.

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